


Press

by roselew



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 21:01:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roselew/pseuds/roselew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In response to the following prompt: ‘something with dean becoming overly stressed and then castiel helping him cope with it by holding him down? not necessarily sexual just like, feeling the weight of cas on him helps him ground himself?’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Press

Dean never asked him to do it. Not the first time nor the most recent, and Castiel couldn’t quite remember what logic caused him to do it in the first place. It had been Dean’s temper, he thought. The hunter’s stress and tension translating into anger, pacing back and forth across the motel room with the demeanour of a wild animal confined, the repetition only turning Castiel’s nerves ragged with borrowed agitation. Sam had, apparently, become familiar with this particular brand of Winchester behaviour, and escaped the room when Dean discovered there was no alcohol to be found.

Eventually Dean’s anger had peaked, risen from tense words to just _shouting,_ and maybe raising his own voice to be heard over Dean’s wasn’t the best course of action, but Castiel’s experiences of placating a very angry, very armed human were limited, and he was catching Dean’s fist before it could come into contact, fingernails pressed so tight into the backs of Dean’s hands that it had to hurt. Dean’s attempt to wrench himself free only made Castiel grip harder, taking a step closer to better brace himself, and Dean’s second fist was badly-aimed and he knew it, coming into weak impact with Castiel’s side that barely even hurt. Another attempt to free himself and Castiel caught his free hand, curling it into a fist within his own.

He knew Dean didn’t mean anything by it: this wasn’t a personal attack. Dean wasn’t good with  _this_ , it was easier to turn anguish and stress into anger than deal with it in any other way. But Castiel was not Dean Winchester’s punching bag. Dean’s frustrated grunt was doubled with another jerk of his shoulders, trying in vain to tug his hands free. Castiel may not have been completely an angel anymore, but his lingering grace left him stronger than Dean without much competition. He had seen Dean fight enough times to anticipate his next move, catching sight of his bared teeth, the hint of white-knuckes between his own splayed fingers before Dean’s ankle was hooking behind his calf, tugging it from under him with enough force to send Castiel to his knees. Shoving their joint hands against Dean’s shoulders to force him down too, flat to the ground beneath him, pressing Dean’s legs straight with his own, Castiel took a moment to breathe, weight supported where Dean’s hands were pressed against his own chest, before Dean’s struggles continued, refusing to be placated. Castiel could feel him, thrumming with violent energy, all tense limbs and rapid heatbeat beneath the heels of his hands. He shoved his hands, still confining Dean’s, up to the taller man’s shoulders, jerking them back to the floor, stilling the worst of Dean’s struggles.

“Enough, Dean.”

Castiel’s voice was rough to his own ears, loud above Dean’s annoyed grunts, the heavy weight of both their breathing. Dean jerked one shoulder up, attempting to dislodge their hands and get some leverage, and Castiel wasn’t gentle when he pushed him against the thin carpet with a dull thud.

“Enough.”

He felt it, a couple of moments later, when Dean sagged, the protesting half-arch of his back straightening, fingers twitching weakly beneath Castiel’s. The ex-angel let their hands sink, to press against the carpet either side of Dean’s face, and for a few moments, the room was carefully, blissfully quiet. Dean’s eyes closed, swallowing where his rapid breaths had dried his throat and Castiel counted the rampant pace of Dean’s heart as it jumped in his neck.

When he was certain the tension had left the man below him, Castiel sank, coming to rest his brow against Dean’s chest, breathing in the salt-musk smell of sweat and skin, the warm softness of cotton, before resettling, temple against Dean’s heart, his voice came out a whisper, between two throbs of Dean’s pulse against his cheek.

“ _Enough_.”

He didn’t count how long they stayed there. Long enough for Dean’s breathing to slow, for their fingers to relax until Dean’s slipped between Castiel’s, not confined but held. It was only when Castiel lost feeling in his legs, when Dean’s eyes had closed, face relaxed enough below his tense brow that Castiel thought he might fall asleep if they weren’t on the hard motel floor. Castiel squeezed Dean’s cramped fingers, touched a brief kiss against his sternum before pushing himself away, kneeling between Dean’s legs before standing entirely. He turned away to save Dean his modesty – he’d come to learn that any show of submission left Dean’s dignity at risk. Sam chose the moment a few seconds later to return, peering warily though the cracked-open door, plastic bag in his hand clinking with the tell-tale sound of beer bottles.

They didn’t talk about it; and it didn’t happen again for a while afterwards.

It was a vampire case in Wisconsin, the deaths of too many innocents and not enough vampires had left Dean quiet, brooding, no doubt, on how it was his fault, downing a bottle of beer in minutes, contemplating the empty bottle before standing to retrieve a next one.

Castiel only half-accidentally got in the way, blocking the tiny kitchen’s only entrance because he knew he could risk it; with Sam at the library looking up the history of attacks in the area there was nothing to stop Castiel from confronting this. Dean could deal with it, if he tried. He just needed a little help getting there. The first shove wasn’t gentle, sent Castiel forward a few inches, bumping his hip against the countertop with a wince. He turned, met Dean’s shadowed, angry eyes, and stood his ground when the next shove came, weaker than the last with the intent of dislodging him. This wasn’t the explosive anger from the first time, this was tired, hopeless stress, failure in Dean’s own eyes and his automatic response was to shut it out, dull his senses with alcohol and do the same until it faded altogether.

When Dean’s last, half-hearted push came into contact, it was easy to fake-wrestle him to the ground, bracing his thighs on either side of Dean’s hips. The response was immediate this time, Dean surrendering himself with little persuasion on Castiel’s part. The restless movement of his shoulders could easily have been mistaken for trying to find a more comfortable position, and Castiel sought Dean’s hands where they’d fallen at his sides, dragging them up and over his head. He caught them in a single hand, wrapped half-around both wrists. Not by necessity; Dean wasn’t going to struggle away, Castiel knew, but Dean needed to be held; grounded. It wouldn’t work if he was free to tear himself apart.

Castiel’s other arm fell automatically to card through the short hair behind Dean’s ear; Dean pressing into the touch though he would deny doing it later, if Castiel ever brought it up. Castiel dipped his head with a sigh between Dean’s shoulder and neck, the weight from his hips to his chest a constant, familiar weight, and he felt Dean’s sigh when he pulled it, the light brush of his eyelashes when Dean turned his face into Castiel’s hand. They’d been in similar positions before: at night while Sam was away, or sometimes when he slept, if they were desperate. Though this was somehow nothing like the frantic lovemaking –  _fucking_ , Dean always insisted, they sometimes practised. There was nothing sexual in the press of Castiel’s hips or the gentle brushes of his lips against Dean’s throat.

It happens again a few times after that, always alone – somehow Sam never inturrupts them, and Castiel wonders if he knows that  _something_ happens while he’s gone. The younger Winchester had always been smart.

Dean never asks. And they never talk about it, but a year and a half later, Dean had dragged a woman, the locus of their case, the one they’d been trying to save all along, from a burning building just as Sam was setting fire to a salted grave half a mile away, and Castiel knew without checking that she was dead. Another innocent lost and Castiel knew this one hit close to the bone, childhood memories of fire and loss and when they were back at the motel - “We’ll leave in the morning,” Sam had said as he left, gaze lingering on Castiel for a moment too long for him to be completely oblivious, Dean had sat himself on the bed beside his angel, rested his fingers against the shoulder of the trechcoat and squeezed, eyes closed. Castiel pressed him back without question, burying himself into Dean’s throat, the trenchcoat covering them both, hiding them. For the first time, it was on a bed. And for the first time, Dean didn’t drink, didn’t fight, he cried. He closed his eyes against  _something,_  pretended not to notice when a few saline drops slid aross his temples, and only a few short minutes later, he slept.

He woke the next morning with Castiel’s weight still on him, and the distinct lack of his usual lingering nightmares.


End file.
